


Copernicus

by sootonthecarpet



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootonthecarpet/pseuds/sootonthecarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real reason Holmes's literary tastes appear so inconsistent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Copernicus

**Author's Note:**

> A theory which popped into my head and was too funny/cute/OOC not to write down as soon as possible.

Sherlock Holmes had somehow managed to fit all of himself onto the windowsill, curling up and staring down at the street. 

“You’re going to fall and die,” Watson told him amiably. Holmes rolled his eyes. “Are you feeling better today, or are you sitting in such a ridiculous location because clouds still hang on you?”

“Not cloudy, Watson, not cloudy… I am too much in the sun.”

“That reminds me, Holmes.”

“Hm?” Holmes looked up.

“You’re forever quoting things.”

“Misquoting.”

Watson shrugged. “It still seems to indicate a familiarity with their sources.”

Holmes blinked at him calmly. 

“You did tell me that you tried to avoid irrelevant information. I seem to recall something about being completely ignorant of the Copernican theory?”

Holmes shrugged.

“And yet that seems to be quite at odds with most of our conversations. Tell me, what is the explanation for this discrepancy?”

Watson waited as Holmes remained resolutely silent.

For the next three hours.

“I was lying,” he said, forcing the words out rapidly.

“Yes, I had gathered that,” Watson told him. “I’m not actually stupid. Why were you lying?”

Holmes swallowed. Watson waited.

“I wanted to seem more interesting!” He cried after a few minutes. 

Watson blinked. “What,” he said flatly.

“I hadn’t had a friend in years, Watson! I was only twenty seven, young and foolhardy—“

“You’re just barely twenty eight now,” Watson pointed out.

“—and I was afraid that if I wasn’t interesting enough you wouldn’t like me…!”

Watson watched calmly as Holmes grew more and more passionate.

“In fact, I confess it—I love literature! Every night if I intend to sleep I read for two hours before bed! I grew up on Shakespeare and Byron and so many others! Even the irrelevant sciences have interest for me, and I took a wonderful philosophy class in university! If that makes me a liar, than I am a liar, and if that makes me any worse of a person, than I accept that mantle, but I will CONCEAL MYSELF NO LONGER! I LOVE BOOKS, AND I LOVE LEARNING, AND WHEN I AM BORED, I RESEARCH THE MOST IRELEVANT THINGS.” He finished, breast heaving with emotion.

“And?”

“And nobody ever wants to befriend me,” he said quietly. “There was only Trevor, and then he was distressed and he abandoned me.”

Watson raised an eyebrow interestedly.

“It’s a long story. I was at university and—this fellow… there was a dog… and his father—Trevor’s father, not the dog’s—never mind,” he said. 

Watson watched him.

“I lied to you because I wanted to be sure you would stay, even if it was only to gawk at my oddities.”

“There are a lot of oddities.”

Holmes nodded weakly.

“Did you really need to add another?”

“I was afraid! I liked you, a lot, and I didn’t want to be alone.”

Watson walked over and patted his hand. “If it helps,” he said, “I am quite fond of you, and I haven’t got any plans to move out.”

Holmes nodded a little, looking unhappy.

“And I think you’re very interesting.”

Holmes seemed a little fortified.

“And if you are willing to eat something, I will make you a sandwich.”

Holmes looked at him in annoyance. “I do not require such assistance!” he complained.

“Holmes, one of us is a doctor who provided treatment of injuries during battles and who was in the military. I have very nearly received formal training in the making of a nutritious, tasty, physically stable sandwich. You, on the other hand, could hardly tell a biscuit from a wheel of cheese.”

Holmes glared. “Fine,” he said.

Watson made Holmes the sandwich and brought it to him, then watched Holmes’s reflection in the coffee pot as the man ate the sandwich.

Holmes was definitely smiling.

Watson smiled too.


End file.
